I arrived early, curious to see what remained. For me. For us. More people than ever before, meant more opportunities to connect in the cherished silence of our being. We were guided by two colleagues who brought an unguarded humility, together with a lightness and joy, all infused with the relaxed intimacy in which they held us throughout.
Two days of space in our togetherness, with familiar embraces, and faces a year older, wiser, and deeply welcomed. I had brought my five-year-old self because he has been with me repeatedly in recent weeks. Amidst the dancing, smiles, hugs and tears, and the gentle invitations to open up, he mingled gratefully, observing closely those whose love, attention and support unknowingly contribute to his healing.
Two insights and an ocean ritual all included him. Needed him. His presence. The first insight came during the first morning, in a response to a simple question, shared in small groups:
What Was Your Gift As A Child?
I wasn’t sure. It seemed inappropriate to write football, so I reverse engineered one from where I stand today: Stillness. In doing so, I found myself honouring his silence: the loneliness and withdrawal of a young boy, witness to a confusing family disintegration, not knowing what to do, not feeling fully seen or heard, trying too hard to save something, whilst struggling to fathom what it all meant.
He was the one who showed me that deeper place; he was the one who explored its darkness, alone. He created a refuge there with his regular visits; found peace and beauty, but also sadness and despair – diamonds formed by the pressures of the deep.
That same sadness and despair flickered on and off throughout this annual event, their intensity pulling at me, pleading with me in some way; and when the time came for us all to say goodbye, they asserted themselves with the same relentless nature the waves had shown an hour earlier. By the final goodbye, I had no idea how I felt, and I walked away in a melancholic daze, exhausted by something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Maybe it was my exertion in the sea which drained me. Maybe it was the death throes of a struggle to fit in. Or maybe it was the tiredness contained in the second insight, which emerged at the beginning of a 3-hour, 5-people exercise designed around another question:
What Do You Long For?
It took people time and effort to formulate and step into their desires. It requires vulnerability to ask others for what you need. Beautifully, each request brought forth a natural willingness, from all those present, to serve; to serve without question, and with an unspoken, self-organising harmony, which, during one particular exercise, took my breath away.
Among the scattered islands of courage and curiosity, people asked for – and wrote – poems; sang songs and played games; sat together in silence; walked, ran and cartwheeled on the sand. Some asked for guidance and support; while others simply asked to be seen, to belong, to be a part of something greater than themselves.
I asked my group to witness a deep longing in me to see my greatness in all its glorious wonder. I am tired of not seeing what’s there, tired of denying or underestimating those same parts he must have dampened, hidden away, or even discarded, for reasons that were never checked.
Somebody asked what I might say to him, and it was then that I realised how fortunate I am to have such communities in which I can show myself fully, be seen so clearly, and held so lovingly. He never had that. His research was conducted privately, erringly, and without the necessary feedback. He was convinced that all his conclusions about himself and the world were justified and correct. They were neither.
In my longing, one person encouraged me to maintain my membership of that darker place. ‘It’s what makes you beautiful’, she told me. ‘Why does it have to leave?’ In that simple question was the invitation to be myself completely. It moved me to tears, because of the acceptance it offered; an acceptance of the self as it is, in all its flaws and beauty; an undeniable out-breath, like an outstretched hand, reaching into my past, to comfort him and let him know that everything will be okay.
An Ocean Ceremony
And so to the beach, for an invitation to create a ritual based on the last two days and any wish for transformation. Mine was immediately clear: immerse myself completely in the water, stay there for as long as I can hold my breath (not long, it turns out), and then emerge anew, shedding some or all of the person I have become, and returning to the one I have always been.
As I dived repeatedly into and under each crashing wave, feeling the physicality of the ocean, I thought of him, and the sheer effort it has taken him to get this far. He will rest again in my lap, as he has done on numerous occasions recently. I will hold him close, soothe his trembling body, witness his fears, and bow to him for all he has done. It is time, once more, for him to play and to express himself to the fullest, so that the smile, which gradually lost its innocence, might adorn his face again.
A Different Place
Throughout all of this, I sat with others in their insecurity, their grief, their achievement, their undoubted development, their struggles, their striving, their laughter, and their kindness. It was different to the previous four occasions, because I am different. It was certainly not as celebratory for me as years gone by, because of the place I am in; but there is a sense that it may have been more valuable.
At the very beginning, when I arrived and saw a particular colleague preparing to lead the event which she had helped devise and design, I relaxed. I know her to be someone who builds space and connection into her trainings. Thankfully, she had done just that for us.
At the very end, one of my dearest colleagues gave me a lift home, and as I stepped out of her car, we had the following, brief exchange. I mention it here because others have said the same thing to me; because it fits with the stillness I carry with me; and because how she saw me in that moment, contrasted with how I saw myself – a heartening reminder of my longing.
“I love your energy.”
“Really? Thank you. It feels heavy.”
“It’s grounded.”
Previous annual gatherings: 2021: 50 Metres High & Grounded | 2022: Eight Songs | 2023: Playing On The Swings | 2024: Shhh…